


The roads we missed together

by Eturni



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alcohol, Arguments, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical The Stranger Content (The Magnus Archives), Dissociation, Dog bite, Kissing, M/M, No beta we kayak like Tim, Paranoia, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Stalking, Trauma Recovery, hand holding, questionably legal research methods, unreality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-21
Packaged: 2021-03-23 18:02:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30059412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eturni/pseuds/Eturni
Summary: A series of shorts for JonTim week and what could have been. All chapters are linked but work as stand alone.
Relationships: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker
Comments: 25
Kudos: 63
Collections: TMA JonTim Week





	1. Teambuilding through a little light trespassing

**Author's Note:**

> Day 1 covers introductions and protect.  
> The relevant tags for this one are blood/injury, dog bite and questionably legal research methods.
> 
> Unsurrpisingly, whilst Tim and Jon work well together their investigations don't always go as smoothly as trhey might hope.

Tim clearly remembers the first time he met Jon. Rosie brought him in to the research office, bright and unaffected by the almost complete silence she got in return to her friendly chatter. She did seem fairly relieved to pass him off to Richard for the induction, though.

He’d been dressed smart enough, though the cardigan made him look like he’d raided his nan’s wardrobe for something warm enough for the autumn chill. Tim couldn’t help but laugh to himself at the almost-disdainful way he took in his surroundings as he was shown around the room.

A new body usually meant playing the “messed up or needs a paycheck” game and Tim had a good idea which side of the betting pool he’d fall on. Jon’s entire posture had screamed “this is the best I can do and it only slightly beats starvation”.

Tim still put on his most winning smile when Richard brought him round. There were plenty of people in London that just needed to eat and he wasn’t going to hold it against him. “Tim Stoker. You’re the newbie then?”

“What tipped you off to that?” A tick of a grimace had flashed across Jon’s face before he introduced himself properly and Tim had needed to choke down on a laugh at how uncomfortable he’d looked.

Then Jon got to working, and all the disdain and discomfort had melted into intense focus. Tim very quickly reconsidered his thoughts on whether something more supernatural might have brought Jon here. It was a surprise how deeply he got into it right off the bat.

As Tim's mum would have uncharitably said; he looked like a bit of an anorak. Acted like it too, if he was honest. He’d have been tempted to say that he dove into his work with a kind of ferocity, if ferocity was a word that could be used anywhere near Jon Sims but he was unfortunately far too non-threatening for that. Sullen, yes. Prickly, absolutely. Ferocious… perhaps less so, though he obviously tried giving it a shot.

The thing about Jon was that he seemed to work surprisingly hard to make himself as unlikeable as possible. Tim remembers pretty clearly thinking how exhausting it must be to be him, to always be pushing back at others’ attempts at kindness. It made no wonder that he permanently looked like he needed about 16 hours of sleep before he'd be fit for human company.

For the first few months Jon was snappy, cold, and as unapproachable as he could make himself whilst being civil and helpful on anything that required work to be done. But Tim noticed the way he watched people. Like the little fucking mermaid, like actual people were so far removed from his world that he couldn’t imagine bridging the gap and yet somehow couldn’t help but gravitate to the brightness of it all.

It became more apparent that the moments Jon was most churlish were the ones that were most himself. Not that Jon was naturally an arsehole so much that he was  _ purposely _ an arsehole in any situation that he didn’t have the script for. The more time he spent looking at Jon, and it was getting maybe a  _ little _ excessive but no one had called him on it, the better he got at spotting that brief moment of panic or discomfort right before he turned on the anti-charm.

It was quickly decided that Tim should be the one to throw himself at the insurmountable challenge of working with Jon without strangling him.

Once they got used to each other it was easier than expected. Jon seemed to soften a little the more he got used to Tim’s methods, mainly because they got results. Not to mention it turned out that Jon was a lot less straight laced than Tim had initially reckoned with: more focussed on research outcomes than pesky things like propriety or the law.

Which is how they find themselves over the fence of a factory out in Church End at just gone dark. Tim finds himself just a little bit smitten when he questions Jon’s decision to bring a bulky duffel bag with him and the man triumphantly pulls out a worn bit of old carpet. All the better to get over barbed wire without injury, he says, like this is something he’s done before.

Tim desperately wants to know more but Jon has the carpet over the wire before he can form the sentence and then he’s clambering the fence like he’s an old hand at it. Tim has  _ questions _ . He sighs out a huff and climbs after Jon, putting it on the back burner until they’re done getting a look around.

A very short look around. They get some glances in through the windows but don’t have the good fortune to find any of the doors unlocked. Their luck goes from bad to worse when Tim hears the rumble of a growl behind them. He knows Jon heard it too. The sudden, terrified grip around his bicep is telling enough.

“Alright,” he whispers, as though the dog will be more alert if he’s too loud “you remember where the carpet is right? Get a jog on.”

Jon swallows convulsively and nods just enough that Tim can see it in the corner of his eye. “Three, two, one-”

Tim waits to see the other move before bursting forward himself. The dog’s bark is like a starting gun, adrenaline fuelling the both of them forward. If only the gunshot loud barking didn’t follow them right through the yard.

By the time they can see the carpet up ahead Tim’s certain that he can feel breath at his heels. He doesn’t dare look back, focusing on the terrified huff of Jon’s breath at his side and the slowly diminishing distance to their end goal.

The thing is, for all Jon runs like someone well versed in short sprints his stride has him losing ground. Not too much, but he’s not ahead any more and Tim knows they can’t both get over at the same time if they get there together.

He curses under his breath and presses harder, feeling the burn in his legs and his lungs as he pulls away from Jon. Just far enough. Just enough.

He slides to a knee as he hits the fence, ignoring the bite of gravel through his trousers and Jon’s panicked cry. “Get your foot here. I’ll boost you.” He calls, holding his gripped hands in front of him with nothing but the urge to get Jon out of this safe playing in his head. And fuck but that’s a big rottweiller. He swallows down the terror and ignores the garbled yells from Jon, praying that this doesn’t go wrong.

His heart is pounding up in his throat as Jon’s foot hits his hands and he heaves upwards, sending him most of the way up to the carpet in one go.

Jon’s swearing is somehow louder as he moves, Tim hot on his heels scrambling for the links with shaking fingers even as something sharp digs into his calf. Pure adrenaline brings his leg up and away, ignoring the hot lance of pain it leaves behind.

Jon’s on the other side already though, letting go and hitting the ground hard as he curses up at Tim. He leaves the carpet to Jon as he finally gets himself on the other side, the blood pounding in his ears almost as loud as everything else going on. He takes a second to just breathe but that’s all he gets before Jon’s hand is in his and dragging him insistently away from the factory and towards something vaguely more residential.

Jon’s wheezing when he finally lets the pace slow and urges Tim to the ground, only then letting his grip on Tim’s hand ease so that he can set himself down on the curb.

“What on earth were you thinking Tim? Why would you be so stupid?! You were ahead, you should have gone over while you had the chance.”

Of all the things Tim was prepared for, Jon’s incandescent anger wasn’t quite one of them. Or at least he expected it to be because they’d ended up chased by a dog and not because Tim had  _ helped _ him.

“What do you mean what was I thinking? I was getting you out of there. Couldn't exactly both get a leg over at the same time, could we?”

“You got yourself hurt.”

“And I could still get away, Jon,” he grunts, pressing a hand firmly at the wound that made itself loudly known having been pointed out. He’s pretty certain the bleeding’s slowing down anyway. Just a flesh wound. “If that big fucker’d caught you it would have used you like a chew toy. What did you expect me to do, just leave you there?”   
  
“Of course!” It’s a near howl, hurt and perplexed and Tim has to make frantic shushing sounds, casting worried looks back towards the factory.

“Look, I’m not gonna pretend you’re not a bit of a dick sometimes, but I’m not going to leave you to get eaten,” He leans in to bump Jon with his shoulder. If he keeps leaning a little heavily against him afterwards Jon’s kind enough not to mention it. “When we get into trouble together we’ve both got to get back out of it, right?”

Jon looks down at his hands, clenching and unclenching them for a few moments as he swallows around words he can’t seem to get out.

Tim thinks he has half an idea of what it is. “You’re not that bad, you know. Wouldn’t even mind being your friend if you didn’t hate the idea of fun outside of work.”

Jon swallows again, the tips of his ears going red. “We should get you to A&E, get that checked out,” he suggests rather than following up with the conversation.

Tim doesn’t mind really. Didn’t really expect anything else. He makes a move to stand up, surprised when Jon grabs his hands frantically and jolts to his feet to try and help him up, despite the significant height advantage that Tim has.

“Should I call a taxi? I don’t- this doesn’t seem like you should be hobbling to the tube-” Jon looks over his leg with his hands fluttering away as if he wants to do something to help and can’t figure out what.

It’s the first time Tim’s seen him without a script and he’s not carried himself through purely on the cold shoulder. It’s a little bit endearing, but that might just be the adrenaline and blood loss. It doesn’t stop him from grinning at Jon and starting to laugh.

Jon scowls at him, that prickly look falling back over his face in one practiced motion until Tim reaches out and takes his hand to squeeze.

“Sorry, I’m not- I’m not  _ laughing  _ at you, I swear. I just thought- Just. It’s nice that you’re worried. God, that sounds bad. I don’t mean it’s  _ good _ that you’re worried, just thanks is all. Think you’re right about the taxi though, don’t think I’ll make it to a station in good nick like this.”

Jon looks at their clasped hands for a moment, his gaze lingering even when Tim comes to his senses and lets his hand drop. “I mean, of course,” he mutters, almost soft. “Of course I care if you’re hurt. I- you’re a good person, Tim. I’m sorry if anything I said made you think I wouldn’t care about your safety.”

Tim smiles wryly at him and the softness he sees there is something he could get used to. “Nah, it’s not like I thought you were heartless it’s just nice to see you like this is all. If I’m lucky I might get to see it without drawing blood next time.”

Jon purses his lips, pausing with his phone to his ear. “Well, we’ll see about it I suppose.”

The tiny, wry smile is very nearly worth getting caught breaking and entering by an unexpected dog. Then he moves his leg and reevaluates as pain spikes through his leg again. It’s still  _ pretty _ good though.


	2. Spotting a Jon out in the wild

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For day 2 - night out and touch.
> 
> Tim finally cajoles Jon enough to get him out for drinks after work despite how reticent he usually is to join the whole team.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm officially going to hit all 7 days! And apologise in advance for Friday/Saturday.
> 
> Warnings for this chapter are alcohol mentions.

“Friday night, no harm in finishing early and coming out for a quick drink.” Tim places his hands at the back of Jon’s chair, wiggling him just slightly in each direction while imagining the delightful scowl that will no doubt be settling there.

It’s five thirty already which is in no way early to anyone  but Jon. Even Tim, who tends to spend an extra half hour or so after work on his own personal research, doesn’t get nearly as lost in it all as Jon does. The usual Friday evacuation started around half three and the two of them have been alone for nearly an hour.

It’s something that’s almost a comfort to Tim. For all the complete general bullshit of the Institute it used to get a bit  weird when he was the last one in. These days he can reliably expect to hear Jon tapping away at his computer while he’s working on The Circus. Yeah, he’s sometimes still left behind if he falls down a particularly deep research hole but mostly the gentle sounds of Jon’s presence carry him through what used to be dead air. Sometimes Jon even deigns to stop by Tim's desk as he leaves and encourage him to go home. Enjoy his night. 

It only makes sense to occasionally make sure Jon leaves at a reasonable hour too.

“I’m working,” Jon grouses, grasping at the edge of his deck and trying to pull against Tim’s pushing.

“Working too late. Not even on time and a half, I might add.” He continues to gently swivel the chair until Jon lets go with one hand to bat backwards at him.

It’s all the opportunity he needs, pulling him back and away from the desk in one sharp tug.

“Tim!” Jon’s panicked annoyance as he scrabbles for purchase at the arm of the chair and Tim’s shirt is exactly what he’s aiming for.

What he doesn’t quite expect is the way Jon continues to grab for him when the chair finally stops moving. He has his hand wrapped around the side of Tim’s neck, bony fingers digging in just a little. It makes him smile, thinking that Jon intends to keep himself tethered there as if it will keep him safe from more of his attacks.

“Yes Jon, my beloved?”

There’s a huff of laughter as Jon turns, face surprisingly close to Tim’s as he does. His cheek moves towards him and for an alarming second Tim wants to kiss him. He’s close enough that he must be able to feel his breath. Then there’s a flick against his ear, a sharp sting, and Jon’s pulling back with a smug look that drags Tim bodily back into the real world.

“Just a couple, I’m not much of a drinker.”

“What, really? Working here hasn't driven you to drink yet?” Tim pushes the chair back towards the desk with a laugh, though Jon’s out of it already and heading for his coat. He raises an eyebrow, as though asking if Tim really wants to question the win. “Cooper’s Arms?” He asks, rather than pushing his luck with another joke.

Jon shrugs in response. “I’ve never been. I assume it will be completely insufferable given it’s a Friday night.

“Well that’s every pub in London out then,” he grins with a roll of his eyes.

He's preoccupied enough to miss the moment that Jon looks over at his eye roll and starts deflating.

“Well I didn’t- That’s not what I-” he grips at the strap of his shoulder bag, jaw clenching as he chews over his words. “Yes, I suppose I should probably just go home. Leave you to your night out.”

His hands twist against the battered leather as he picks up pace, moving away from Tim. Tim reaches out, catching his arm gently enough to be shrugged off if he’s not feeling up to contact at the moment.

“Not what I meant either, Jon. You should be able to have a good time if we’re going out for a drink, right? What did  you mean?”

“I meant what I said,” Jon scowls, elbowing his hand away. “Going out on a Friday will be completely insufferable.”

“You don’t have to, you know. I’m not going to stop asking but I get nights out aren’t really up your alley.”

Jon mutters something, turning his head away conspicuously. He doesn’t say another word until Tim carefully nudges him, though he keeps pace alongside him rather than rushing off again. “I said I was coming and I am. Unless you want to take your invite back.”

Tim sighs and throws an arm around him. The last thing he wants is Jon going back to that brittle, waspish way of acting. He assumes Jon’s halfway to retreating into old patterns, convinced that Tim will jump on the half-hearted out as soon as he has it.

“Cooper’s it is. Not letting you get away when I finally have a chance to see you out in the wild. Sash’ll never believe me.”

"The  wild ," Jon tuts. “Anyone would think you hadn’t seen a pub on student night.”

“Jonathan Sims, was that an actual joke?” He grabs his jacket before falling into step beside Jon, throwing an arm companionably over his shoulder.

He lets his arm hang loose and easy as though he hasn’t noticed Jon go tense next to him. He waits for the careful shrug of shoulders that will knock him off. Instead Jon steps minutely closer, enough that their hips very nearly collide as they walk but it takes some of the stretch out of his arm.

“I prefer to call it an astute observation,” he sniffs.

Tim laughs, and he swears for just a second that he sees Jon’s expression brighten a little in return.

By the time they get to the pub Friday night’s in full swing. Tim doesn’t miss it when Jon steps closer still, eyeing the place warily. “I’ll fight my way to the bar. You want to see about a seat? Might even get one by the time I’ve got drinks.”

He scowls a little in return but reluctantly nods. The response is evidently not only in Jon’s usual dry tone but also at his usual volume. Tim points to his ear and shakes his head, gesturing for them to step back out.

He’s momentarily confused when Jon shoots him an annoyed look. He’s saved asking what's wrong when Jon pushes up on his toes and leans in as close to Tim’s ear as he can. “Lager and black. I’ll text you once I’ve got a seat to let you know where I am.”

The tone is all business, which is enough to sharply curb Tim’s immediate reaction to having his friend’s breath ghosting across his neck.

The moment Jon steps back he swallows around the words catching in his throat, firing off the trusty fingerguns so he doesn't look as though he's fleeing the scene when he heads up to the bar like a shot. He at least knows he won't forget Jon's order as he presses into the throng of bodies. He can still feel the brush of the words on his skin. He's so distracted by it that he forgets he'll need his phone until after he's already got a drink in each hand.

It takes a short shuffle to get his hands free enough for his phone, only to find there's no text anyway. He goes on the hunt and has to stop to laugh to himself when he spots Jon hovering like a hawk over a hen party. Both parties look to be completely inured to the other’s presence: Jon completely blanking the commotion of it all in a way he rarely could and the group's speed completely unaffected by Jon's occasional glares.

"No luck yet?"

Jon startles as the drink is pressed into his hand, though it might also be at how close Tim has pressed to make sure he can hear him properly. Jon's lips form a thin line of annoyance as he looks over the table. "They looked like they were leaving. They've been leaving for almost 10 minutes."

It's a fight not to laugh at Jon's expression. If he were feeling cruel he'd call it a pout. If he were feeling brave he might say as much to the other’s face. As it is he decides to wait and see if the night softens Jon a little before pushing his luck. "We'll just loom menacingly until they get a wiggle on then will we?" he grins.

"If you have any better ideas-"

"Not at all. I can do menacing."

"Being a menace and being menac ing are two entirely different things. You understand that, right?"

Tim rips the glass away from his face and pulls back from Jon as he laughs, barely managing to hold in the mouthful he'd been halfway through.

"Rude!" he objects, perhaps a little less strongly than he might have if it wasn't for the little pleased smile dancing at Jon's lips and the slight flush that he swears he can make out, though that might just be shit pub lighting.

"Ah, but my plan worked," Jon nods over to the hen party who are starting to move properly, shooting annoyed looks at Tim the entire time.

"Oh fu- look I'm sorry about that. My friend's a bit of an arsehole."

For all that he turns on the charm his apologies don't seem to be doing much. Likely not helped by the way Jon is grinning and sidling back up to his side the entire time they clear out. Jon's onto a seat almost the second they're free, fingers curled around Tim's arm as he goes to drag him along.

"Afraid we'll lose it?" He laughs, leaning in close even though it's not quite as loud here as it was near the bar. Closeness with Jon is nice. It's an accomplishment, like having a very picky cat allow you to get near it.

Jon shoves him with a shoulder, barely any force behind it. When he pulls away his arm stays, a steady line of warm contact as they nurse their drinks.

It's surprisingly easy to talk to Jon, once you get him going. Harder to get him to stop sometimes but Tim doesn't mind that so much. It makes him animated and leaves Tim room to just think.

Admittedly that's a dangerous enough thing when it leaves him thinking too much about how much younger and happier Jon looks when he's out of work and given free reign to lecture Tim on the practice of being a cooper and the eventual move over to metal barrels. He only takes about half of it in but watching Jon go is pretty nice in its own right.

Their free hands brush occasionally, and when Jon gestures outwards he always settles his hand in close again, like he doesn't want to lose the touch just because he's in full flow.

Tim laughs to himself when Jon stutters to a halt, realising he's not let Tim get a word in edgewise for nearly 15 minutes.

"Nah, go for it, I don't mind a good history lesson every now and again. Much more interesting when you're not  forced  to learn it."

"And me backing you into a corner and talking your ear off isn't being forced?" He grouches at the table in general. Tim is absolutely certain he sees a blush this time.

"Feel free to back me into a corner and lecture me any time you want," Tim grins into his pint, determinedly  not  making eye contact. "If you like I could even return the favour. Be surprised what I know about architecture, and you learn some weird stuff in publishing."

"I- that would be nice, actually."

The softness in Jon's voice isn't a thing he's expecting, like he's surprised to be told it's okay to keep talking. Or at being invited to hang out again.

When he turns back Jon's looking straight at him, a flicker in his eyes as if searching Tim’s face for a sign that this isn’t real.

"Yeah?" he prompts, slowly and carefully curling his fingers under Jon's hand; brushing them against his palm with a gentle slowness that gives plenty of time for him to pull away.

Jon just looks at their hands like he's on the brink of a breakthrough he can't quite understand. When Tim finally laces their fingers together and holds him there in their own little corner of the pub Jon finally smiles something genuine and small.

"Yeah." He echoes, squeezing his fingers once before returning to his drink.

The conversation is a little calmer after that. Tim half thinks its because Jon doesn't want to get far enough into a topic to start gesturing wildly again. Their hands barely leave each other for the rest of the night, after all. Even fighting their way into the cool night air to make their way to the tube station they hold on to the last moment, and the warmth of Jon's hand in his follows him all the way home. 


	3. Unofficial holidays

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> April Fool's Day, like Halloween, is a long-standing pseudo-holiday for the Institute, with London turning out to provide joke statements. Some of the research staff also get in on the spirit of it. To varying degrees of success.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not really any warnings for this, though Elias does get a mention in without turning up.

When Jon rushes into the office looking stressed it’s rarely the end of the world. Tim takes one look at the taut lines around his mouth and the determined look in his eye and figures that his research outing today came up against Jon’s biggest enemy: actual human interaction.

He stretches up a little, swivelling his chair to follow Jon as he dives into the folders at his desk. “Tea? Was just gonna put the kettle on.”

“In a minute,” Jon brushes him off brusquely, barely sparing him a glance for where he’s going through his personal binder of printed statements. 

He looks almost frantic, eyes scanning the pages with an intensity that he usually reserves for arguments about the relative cuteness of cats. (Tim has previously told Jon he should open a WeRateCats account to rival the WeRateDogs twitter. He’d spent so long deriding the whole platform that he actually forgot about the little moggy he’d been trying to coax until it was long gone.) 

“You alright there Jon? You look a little bit spooked,” his frown deepens when the other’s initial response is just to tighten his fist around the page he’s on at the time. He knows Jon isn’t a fan of the word but crumpling up his meticulously organised work isn’t the reaction he expected.

“Fine. I’m fine I-I just… looking for. I can’t find it and-” he sucks in a breath through his teeth and mutters something else.

Tim reaches out to place a hand on his shoulder, squeezing at the obvious tension there with mounting concern. “C’mon, starting to worry me a bit here John-boy. You need to find someone’s emergency contact or actually see someone get eaten by glitter or what?”

“I think this one was telling the truth. One of the statements might be real.”

The Magnus Institute in general is not the loudest of places but a fair few of them work in research and it’s never exactly quiet either. Not until the exact moment Jon makes that declaration. The room falls into quiet. The printer struggling in the corner is, for a very strained moment, the only noise in the room.

Tim can see Jon’s ears flushing at the sudden attention on him. “I- You what? Is this some sort of prank? Are you- you finally getting into the spirit of the season?”

“Well why would I do that?” Jon demands, sounding flustered and annoyed and very much not looking towards Tim. “It would be completely unreasonable to assume that I would come up with a joke exactly like that for a pseudo-holiday that I rarely take note of regardless. And, in fact, i-if anything I’d say that I should be  _ less _ likely to believe a statement today than almost any other day of the year. Did you think about that? I mean, of course I’m- I’m just- there was some- some compelling evidence that they were able to give. Yes, and I need to get it into their file.”

“Shit, Jon!” he’s surprised at just how relieved he is to hear that cagey, completely unbelievable tone. “You had me going for a second.”

“I don’t know what you mean. I’m completely serious,” he shoots back, too earnestly and not nearly annoyed enough to be realistic.

“Look Jon, that was a good first effort and all but you’re… you’re just a  _ really bad liar _ , you know that? Needed to have more contingencies set up so you didn’t have to think on your feet,” he doesn’t quite let go of the shoulder yet, squeezing and rubbing as some of the tension finally ekes away.

There’s a concentrated effort in the way Jon turns towards him, doing his best to ignore the rest of the researchers as they fall back into conversation with some laughs of their own. “Well. April Fools, regardless,” he declares, and it’s almost bashful and he’s still blushing a little and  _ shit _ but that’s not good for Tim’s heart but also it’s fucking adorable somehow. He looks proud of himself, and Tim finds that he’s almost proud of Jon himself.

Jon’s been at the institute for just over two years by now. It’s his third April Fool’s day at the very least. It’s also the first time he’s taken part in the chaos of it, despite how much general ridiculousness tends to get drawn in on the day.

The academic world had little enough respect for Magnus as an institution and if the visits that they got on 1st of April were anything to go by, most of London agreed. So it’s pretty much a working holiday for institute staff, which Jon usually took exception to despite his own sceptical nature.

Tim’s surprised at how oddly excited he feels that Jon finally got into the spirit of it all and tried his own prank. It was a terrible effort, obviously. Anything that required Jon to actively lie his way through it was bound to unravel almost immediately, but the fact that he was  _ trying _ was a little bit thrilling. The fact that he had turned to Tim like his touchstone even though most of the department had been caught in the prank gave him the warm kind of thrill that he’d been able to bask in openly over the last year or so.

“C’mon, how about a tea now your dastardly plan’s over with?” He offers, releasing his hold. If Jon looks just a little bit disappointed when he lets go Tim knows he can make that up to him later.

“You’re going first. If there’s an air horn behind that door again I’m not about to be deafened by it.”

Tim scoffs, opening the door to the break room with a little flourish and meandering in to put the kettle on. “Honestly? I’m almost offended that you think I’d be so unoriginal that I’d use the same trick two years running. Shame.”

“Well, I do apologise for assuming that you wouldn’t put more effort into your pranks than your day job. I’ll make sure not to make that mistake again,” he huffs with a roll of his eyes as he fishes out their preferred mugs.

There’s that little smile playing at the edges of his lips, though, and it makes Tim warm to think that he gets to see it so regularly now. It took enough work.

"I’ll thank you to not. You know me better than that,” he smiles, secure in the truth of that at the very least.

Jon just sticks to oversteeping his tea with another huff. “Yes, I suppose I do.”

He’s so distracted, in fact, that he seems to miss Tim excitedly watching him as they return to their desks. Maybe he’s ignoring it on purpose, a little too vulnerable for one day. Either way it means he misses Tim's growing grin as he logs on and fair recoils away from his computer.

“Christ, Tim! Is that Elias?”

“That is, indeed, our dear, creepy leader.” He barely keeps down the laugh bubbling in his chest. The venomous look Jon shoots him as he gets up to join him tells him that his self-control is very much not appreciated.

“Do I  _ even _ dare ask whose body that is?”

“If my sources are to be trusted, and they are,” he grins, looking over Jon’s shoulder with a grimace at the sight that greets him, “that is a very well known sportswear model.”

“Thank you for not causing any further pain by giving me a name I would have zero context for. Can I assume that this is your doing?”

“Consider it a joint present from me and Sasha. I was going to tape it to the ceiling so he was looking down on you,  _ which _ I still believe is both his right and what he would have wanted. Sasha’s the one who thought backgrounds would be better. Got it sorted for all the research computers.”   
  
“ _ All _ of them?” Jon looks up to him with obvious alarm. “Including the SCONUL use computers?”

“Eh, the uni kids use the library, you know that,” Tim shrugs. None of them were in today for anything other than a fake statement as a laugh anyway. Straight into the creepy archives and straight back out.

“I’ve seen enough of them lurking in here to know you’re both pushing your luck. And Sasha would watch you take the fall for it from her tower of evil if you got caught out. There’d be absolutely no one coming to your rescue.”

“Oh, I don’t know if that’s true. I reckon I could rely on at least one person to mount up a rescue for me.”

“Perhaps Rosie?” Jon raises an eyebrow, entirely dry. “Because if you’re expecting it from me you completely overestimate my bravery.”

Tim laughs, looping his arms over Jon’s shoulders from behind so he can rest his chin on his head, planting a quick kiss against his hair before Jon can complain about who might be looking. “I think I’d hope for you to come after me anyway. You gonna actually change that back?”

He smiles to himself when Jon absently reaches up for one of his hands, rubbing his thumb over the back of it.

“Well I’m not going to work with  _ that _ threatening me every time I have to go to my desktop, am I?” he grouses, though he only starts looking for how to fix it now that Tim's said something. “Oh, and by the way it’s ten past 12 and was at least five past when I turned on my computer. You’re late and this doesn’t count.”

Tim laughs incredulously. “Doesn’t  _ count _ as a prank? I know the whole before midday thing but I don’t know what you count this as if not.”

“Workplace harassment,” Jon deadpans, shifting his head to look up.

Tim pulls back just enough to get a proper look at him and so his chin doesn’t end up in Jon’s eye. There’s something very nearly teasing in it and  _ honestly _ ? It’s a good look on him. “Alright, I suppose you’re after something to swear not to take this to HR?”

He nods with fake solemnity and Tim finds it hard to believe that stuffy persona had ever seemed like the real Jon to him. “I think it’s only fair that our next night out is on you and Sasha: since you so kindly implicated her in the incident and couldn’t fool me in time.”

And bloody hell Jon could be such an arsehole, and can’t just admit that he likes hanging out with them like a normal person would and Tim is so unbelievably fond of him for it regardless. “I suppose if we have no other choice,” he sighs as dramatically as he can to say that the grin just won’t stay down.

The little smile he gets in return is no less warm before he looks away almost shyly and Tim finds his stomach flipping over again. It’s hard to concentrate on work for the rest of the day, which only makes it lucky that no one expects much done on April Fools.


	4. Defining a relationship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 4 is Banter/Research/Jealousy. A little bit of all three but mainly jealousy here.
> 
> Jon isn't quite sure how to take it when Tim's usual flirting leads to him asking someone out at the weekend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm here happily throwing out JonTim fluff and blatantly ignoring that the Magnus Archives is a podcast.
> 
> Mild warnings for police existing in the world and jealousy.

Tim knows people. He’s good with people, and he finds chatting with difficult customers a lot more easy than most of the others in the research department. This usually means that when they need a favour from one of their more secretive agencies or they have someone who’s a little more reticent with their information Tim gets sent in to have a crack at it.

Which means that Tim’s dealing with the cops again. Every time they get another one in for the same smuggler he gets a little bit closer to getting information that might actually be helpful in tracking her down. Today is not that day. 

He still manages the same easy smile as he leads PC Catlow out from the back office and through to the front of the building, his guiding hand carefully at just the right height on her lower back to be professional but subtly flirtatious.

“Let me know if you reconsider the Tate, alright? I'm free most Saturday mornings. I might be a bit of a philistine when it comes to art but I’m always open to being educated by a capable teacher,” he smiles warmly, keeping his step close as he opens the door ahead of her.

The smile he gets in return is exactly what he was hoping for: like she wants to let him know she’s not falling for it for a second but is still just a little bit charmed regardless.

“I’ll consider it,” she promises and Tim gets the feeling that this time she might even mean it.

He leans against the doorway to watch her go, making sure she gets signed out okay. When she turns to give him a wave before she leaves he makes a concentrated effort to not look as satisfied as he feels. It had been a blow to the whole institute when Nathan had left for Salisbury a few months ago. He’d been very good about sharing information with Tim and even seemed to get along with a couple of the archival assistants. While they were still around.

Sasha gives him a thumbs up as he settles back into his chair. “Got her well and truly smitten have you?”

“We’re getting there. She hasn’t agreed to pub night yet but I might get a lecture if I’m a lucky boy,” he shoots back a wink as he logs on again to get down what little information he did manage to gather this time around.

“A lecture?” She sucks in a breath through her teeth. “I know I said I like research better than artefact storage but… you still take on some dangerous risks here don’t you?”   
  
“Always willing to take one for the team. Even if it’s in the form of a three hour art lesson from someone significantly less cute than my usual lecturer.”

“Actually, I meant the risk of making your spouses jealous. Flirting with another woman right in front of us both. Risky,” she grins, though the way she raises her eyebrows and nods over to Jon’s vacant desk seems pointed.

“Oh, am I going to need to show you a good time this Thursday to make sure I don’t get on your bad side?”

“Noooo,” Sasha drawls. “I’ll just turn up at your little date with our child and cause a scene. Show you up with the love fern. Think Jon might take a little more coaxing though.”

“Was he alright?” He asks, looking around for where he’s gone off to.

“Looked a bit like he’d chewed a wasp, so not much different than dealing with the public,” she assures him.

As though it’s actually any reassurance. It had taken  _ months _ to get Jon to the point where he didn’t treat him like any of their statement givers and he isn’t about to go back to anything like that again. The thing is, he’d love to say that there’s no way Jon would give him the cold shoulder and fall back onto the professional asshole bit but it’s happened before. Their first row after getting together Jon had entirely closed himself off for over a week until Tim had managed to cajole him into actually talking it through.

He had an annoying habit of planning for everything to go wrong and jumping straight to that conclusion rather than sticking his neck out.

The set of Jon’s jaw when he returns from the bathroom does little to ease his concern. At the very least Jon’s too professional to cause a scene at work.

“Tim, can we talk?” He’s got his hands over the edge of Tim’s desk, knuckles slightly white.

“Sure. I mean you want to chat after work or-”

“Look, just… Have I misunderstood something here?” Maybe not  _ too _ professional to do this at work then. He’s looking down at his own hands rather than meeting Tim’s eyes, fingers twitching with what’s probably the urge to go out for a cig. “Are we- I- Are you dating that police woman?”

“What, Abi? No! I don’t- that’s just trying to get information. It’s a work thing, I wouldn't  _ date _ a rozzer. I’m more likely to elope off with Sasha if she’d say yes one of these days. You never cared about my championship flirting with her.”

“But that’s Sasha,” Jon rolls his eyes, flicking his hand as though physically dismissing the idea without further thought.

Sasha snorts a laugh. “Is that your way of saying you don’t think I’m a viable threat? I know I’ve turned him down enough but that’s cold, even for you.”

Jon shrugs, the tips of his ears colouring. “It’s just different. He cares about you. And I- we’re friends, so it’s different. It’s different.”

Tim narrows his eyes, not entirely sure what to make of Jon digging his heels in like that. “Look I… Does it make you uncomfortable? I mean I’ve always had a bit of a flirt with people for information. Did you expect it to change?”

And isn’t that a weird feeling. He doesn’t really know what he’ll do if Jon expects him to act like a different person just because they’re together. Jon cuddles have been good but it seems like a bit of a red flag to expect Tim's behaviour to change when he already knows what he’s like.

“I don’t know what I thought,” he sighs, twisting his fingers around each other until it looks painful. “Look, I- I’ve been thinking an-and I just supposed I realised that we never really- I mean it’s just that I’d made  _ assumptions _ about what was happening because of- not that it matters, I suppose. Like you said. That’s just how you are. I shouldn’t have thought without asking. It’s just that you’ve never asked anyone out on a weekend date before and I suppose I didn’t realise- I thought that I- that you- that it was  _ different _ , you-”

“Jon, Jon! I don’t think I’m following you. What are you getting at?”

Jon set his jaw and stepped back from the desk, fingers digging into the edge of his shirt as he nervously clenches and opens them. “I suppose what I mean is that I’d quite like to be dating you and I’m sorry for assuming that we were without talking to you but. Yes. That. I would… like to date... you.”

Tim rubs at his eyes, wondering if the pressure there will help take away the ache that wants to start. “I thought we were too, Jon. I call you my boyfriend, what did you think that meant? I’m still going to flirt a bit, though. Asking someone to hang out on a weekend doesn’t change anything about- about us,” he was very aware of Sasha grinning his way when his voice lowered at the end, face warm.

“Oh. I- Well then, that’s… good. That’s good. I’ve never seen you ask someone out for the weekend. I suppose it just made me realise that we never really- and you can talk about calling me your boyfriend all you want but you also call Sasha the love of your life and it... I don’t know, are you dating us both?”

Tim sighs. “Just you, Jon. Though I have no idea why- I mean asking it right in front of us both is a bit weird.”

“Well it’s Sasha,” he frowns again as if that makes any sense “but still… I’m glad. I’m rather fond of you.”

Tim can’t help the laugh that bubbles up. He’d have hoped so, given all the time they’ve spent together recently. “Pretty fond of you too, Sims. And I promise, if we’re going to let Sasha in on this relationship I’ll make sure you know about it first.”

Jon smiles, wry but warm as Sasha almost snorts her tea. “I think I can agree to that.”

Sasha can't hold back the laugh at that, gently kicking out at his shin though she's miles off of connecting.

As he passes the desk into his own seat Tim makes sure to grab Jon's hand for a brief squeeze, warmed by the way his cheeks flush a little darker. He snatches his hand back as soon as he's sat down, grumbling to himself as though he isn't also fighting a smile the whole time. Tim figures he might be up for a lecture at the weekend whether or not he gets to the gallery.


	5. Breaking trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 5 impulse/plea/break involving a little bit of all three.
> 
> Jon shows up at Tim's house. Too bad that he was hoping Tim wouldn't be in at the time. When Tim finds out it doesn't take long for his trust in Jon to fail as easily as Jon's had in him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today is time for me to hurt. Just, everyone if I can manage it.
> 
> Warnings for canon typical stalking, invasion of privacy and paranoia.

Tim isn't an idiot. Jon’s been weird recently: cagey and paranoid and pulling away worse than he had when they’d first moved to the archives and he’d decided “boss” meant “pretend they’d never been together and things were purely business between them”.

Tim barely knows what to do with himself. He had all of two anchors left in his life and one of them was coming completely unhinged. Even Sasha’s been more distant recently, obviously stressed herself with Jon’s unchecked paranoia.

Between Jon’s suspicion of all of them and the fact that he’s very poorly trying to blend in at the bus shelter it’s painfully clear that he isn’t here to reinstate film night.

It hurts.

He stops in the doorway, Tesco bag in one hand, keys dangling in the other, and blinks slowly as though it might change what he was seeing or at least make the sight any less cruel. Jon remains exactly where he is, clutching at a newspaper like the world’s worst spy and definitely nowhere that he has any excuse to be at this time on a Thursday night.

He briefly considers calling the police. There’s even a moment that he flirts with smearing one of his windows with raspberry jam just as a middle finger. Then his feet are moving, taking him over to Jon on impulse more than because he’d really made the decision.

“What are you doing here Jon?” He doesn’t know if the other flinches because of the edge to his voice or because he actually hadn’t noticed him striding over.

For just a second Tim hopes that there’ll be an honest reason. He was keeping out of the cold and actually did come to see him, or he stumbled here after getting chewed out following up some statement he wouldn’t trust the rest of them with. Maybe he was so sleep deprived he’d got onto the wrong line in some old habit that Tim would have assumed was long gone. Anything. Anything at all. Something in his chest screams with a hope that sputters like a candle in a storm. He knows nothing in his life brings warmth back to him after it’s slipped away.

It’s only confirmed when Jon lowers the paper and can barely meet his eye. “Tim, I- ahhh, I’m glad you’re here. I just wanted to follow up with you about the- uhhh Richardson statement?"

“And it needed you to come to my house? Outside of work hours? Without even a text?” What little hope he clung to gutters out quickly, and the air that rushes in fills his chest with an emptiness he hasn’t felt in years.

“Well, I was in the area you see and-and so it only made sense. But of course I didn’t know if you were in an-and-”

“You’re supposed to come up with your contingencies first,” he chides, voice hollow of any of the emotion he wants to find to wrap himself in. Like when he’d sat numb in the last chair Danny had ever sat in for hours after he’d left Covent Garden. “You’re a shit liar.”

“I’m not! Not lying, that is. I-I actually wanted to see you . A-about a possible- about-”

“Stop! Just- just  _ stop _ okay? Don’t pretend like you wanted to be here for me. Don’t insult me like that.” He finally summons the volume he wants though there’s no fire there, tamped down by the way Jon flinches away from him and the disbelief that it’s gone this far already.

He can barely reconcile the man in front of him with the one he’d spent long evenings in the library with, legs tangled as they sat among the shelves passing books between them. It’s like having a stranger in front of him; even more when Jon slumps like the strings on him have been cut, a sullen nod of acceptance.

“I… I didn’t want for this to happen,” he finally offers, as though that’s any explanation. It’s not even an apology.

“You didn’t  _ want _ me to find out,” the words taste bitter on his tongue. “You were perfectly happy to rock up outside my house and, what?  _ Stalk me _ ? Attempt a break in if I wasn’t here?”

Jon flushes, shoulders hitching up around his ears and Tim very suddenly and very clearly remembers the spare key hiding in a cracked part of the lintel overhang. The one Jon definitely knew about, from back when there was an open invitation back. From nights of random tabletop games and failed cooking experiments and slow, lazy kisses. Before the rot set in between them.

“No,” Tim’s voice breaks on the word, and he’d be embarrassed if he wasn’t so thoroughly gutted. “C’mon, there has to be  _ any _ other…”

But there isn’t, is there? It’s just the two of them out in the street and the cold truth between them: that nothing could bridge the space that had grown to a chasm without Tim ever realising how far they’d gone.

If anything Jon sinks deeper into his shoulders and Tim half wonders if there’s finally some remorse there. “Tim please, I’m sorry but I  _ need _ to know. I can’t- I can’t keep going not knowing it might be one of you. I don’t know what to trust any more.”

“You used to be able to trust me,” he pushes down the tightness in his throat and the tremble that wants to start in his lip; trying to build up some anger to smother it down.

“I know,” Jon nods. He looks honestly miserable, hand twitching outwards like he might try to reach for Tim and finally bridge that gap. He doesn’t. The hand falls back to his side without much fanfare. “I wish I still could but I don’t know how.”

Tim bites his lip, backing up a step from the other. “Go home, Jon. Just go home.” He’s tired and angry and hurting and the person who  _ should _ be able to understand all of that, who he should be able to complain to about it, is the one standing here causing it all. “And don’t fucking come back. You’re not welcome here any more.”

He doesn’t expect Jon to fight it; it feels like years now since he was willing to fight to make things work between them, but it still stings when the only response he gets is a small nod. “Yes, yes I should go.”

Tim turns back to the house and doesn’t look back as he retrieves the spare key and closes the door behind him.


	6. Known and Unknown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 6 of JonTim week is Past/Warmth/Sacrifice with a bit of all three sprinkled through.
> 
> It's the unknowing and Tim has so little of himself left to hold onto other than rage until he stumbles across Jon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for canon typical unknowing fuckery including unreality and dissociation.  
> Also for a canon-typical use of explosives
> 
> When I saw the JonTim week prompts this was the first one I got an idea for and my first finished piece so I'm pretty excited about this one. Thankfully I felt a mighty need to contribute to the whole week so this isn't how it's ending.

He doesn’t know when they got separated. Or he does. It was obvious, he knows, but he doesn’t remember somehow. It’s just that it’s so hard to piece anything together that isn’t rage and fear and too many fucking colours.

Part of him is still looking for Jon regardless.

It’s just loud is all. Sounds and colours and shifting, warping laughter among flashes of movement that make it impossible to follow. Everything feels like a threat. Everything’s gone wrong, though he can’t actually remember what right is.

There are people pretending to help him who leave sharp marks from their edges, and so many words that confuse and distract because he can barely tell which way is up. If there even  _ is _ an up. He wants to hurt them all, wants to tear through them until the terror and anger in his chest are burnt out of him.

He’s winding up to break one of them when the warbling noise resolves into a voice. “Wait, Tim! What do you see?”

“I see my asshole boss!” He snarls in return before suddenly realising that it’s true. Not only that, it’s such a fucking  _ Jon _ thing to say. Not ‘stop’, no pleading, just  _ what do you  _ fucking  _ see _ . Nothing that makes sense. Or does it?

The longer he looks… “Wait… wait.”

It’s Jon’s face, definitely. Slightly more solid than the twisting unreality of the other things that had tried to claim to be friends. He’s looking at him, tentatively hopeful. The memory of being in that back corner table all over again, hands brushing against each other casually until Tim very carefully curled his fingers across Jon’s palm held him there still.

It’s the same slight disbelief, the same flicker as he searches Tim’s eyes for a sign that this isn’t real.

“You… I-”

“What do you see?” It’s urgent and intense.

The memory of Jon leaning over his desk, looking like he needed an answer as much as he needed air, or to be right in an argument. Unsure of how much love he was allowed and how much he had fabricated in his own mind. Surprisingly ready to push for more of Tim’s attention rather than brushing him off and going to ground.

“You know who I am, don’t you? I know you, Tim. I  _ know _ you.” It’s determined, slightly unhinged.

The memory of paranoia, a sharply bitter taste in his mouth. The memory of Jon stalking him. Of casing his  _ home _ . Of having to move where the spare key was and wondering every day after that if Jon had been in there,  _ in his things _ . There’d been a time Jon could have just invited himself in. There’d been a time he was welcome to the knowledge of where the spare was. There was a time he could have asked to come in at any time, spent the night nosing around Tim’s things and collapsed against him on the couch. It feels like that years ago. Was it?

He blinks, Jon suddenly clear amid the chaos of unreality around him. Relief mixed with annoyance in his gut. “I see you.” 

“Spoilsport,” a nearby voice jeers.

When he turns there’s quickly a whole other target for his rage. Grimaldi.

The clown in shifting colours smiles. It isn’t a pleasant thing. “Once. A long time ago, before Orsinov made me. Sometimes even now, for special occasions. Like your brother.”

The rest of the words are lost in the sudden buzzing of rage in his skull. It’s boiling hot, stabbing at the backs of his eyes as brightly as the twisting of colours around them. It presses down on him too loud and bright and all too much and he forgets for a moment all that he is; lashing out without thinking, barely connected to his own body.

There is laughter and a moment of clarity as Jon’s hand falls on his arm and he almost remembers who he is. “Tim, what’s in your hand?”

He looks down. His hand doesn’t look like his own. Maybe it’s Jon’s, but Jon said it was in  _ his _ hand so it must be. “It’s… I don’t…” a wave of sickness comes with the next discordant swell of song and in the brief moment of a calliope he remembers Danny and his rage solidifies the only part of him that feels real any more. “The detonator.”

The clown’s face twists. It’s still a smile, painted on, but it  _ looks _ angry. “That’s quite enough from you I think.”

Tim doesn’t see anything happen but Jon is yelling, clutching at himself and shifting into odd colours; the edges of him starting to dance as the clown’s eyes land on Tim. The threat of them is clear. He clutches the detonator close, tries to feel satisfied at Jon’s pain but instead finds it only makes him more determined to tear this creature to pieces.

He steps slightly in fr- arou- somewhere near Jon that feels defensive. The space of it doesn’t make sense but that can piss off. “Go on, I dare you. See if you’re quicker than I can set it off.”

“You’re already too late. The world is ours and that  _ toy _ won’t help you now,” the thing spits. For a moment it looks like Danny before the face passes to something else and it’s like a punch to the gut the way all his breath leaves him.

“So what are you waiting for?” He watches closely, mind feeling sharper among the blur of the world than it has in… feeling sharper. He sees the hesitance. Smiles grimly. She’s stalling.

The only thing they have now is time, and how short Tim can make it.

“I am  _ losing my patience _ .” The not Grimaldi scowls and moves towards him as if to try it after all. Or to hurt Jon again.

“Back! Get back. That’s right,” He twists, getting his occupied hand on the opposite side and leaving him facing Jon. He feels the warmth of him for the first time in months. Jon looks dazed at first, eyes only clearing as his hand comes up and taps against Tim’s chest a few times before settling there, as if proving to himself that it’s real.

For the first time the rage wavers. He sucks in a deep breath and looks at Jon; impossibly small and curling towards Tim as if he still thinks there might be comfort to be had there, eyes full of a thousand things they haven’t been able to say to each other. He sees, for a moment, a future that is terrible to behold only because it cannot be. A world in which they’re different people; still fractured but learning where to piece things together and how to sand down the sharp edges before they clash.

“I don’t forgive you,” he grits out, grief bright and hot with the truth of it “but I wish we could have had the time to try.”

Grimaldi, Orsinov, whatever, is screaming at him. What he can and can’t save, how meaningless this all is, how his brother's already gone. He can still see Jon, dazed and fractured from whatever she did. He can see Danny, the way his skin had torn and fallen away from one of the dancers somewhere in all this mess. Of course it’s meaningless, all this spooky bullshit is. “I don’t care.”

“You can’t even save  _ him _ ,” the voice hisses again, more desperate and fraught.

“I don’t care,” he repeats, eyes still locked with Jon. It’s a lie. He realises half a second too late. It’s a lie.

He activates the remote. The world goes white and red and dark, and Jon’s hand is somehow in his own when the darkness takes him.


	7. Anchors and new travels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the final day of Jontim week! With a little bit of all three trust/escape/reconcilliation.
> 
> Martin and Tim reach an understanding, Jon has someone to lead him back from the buried and a long overdue conversation happens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for mentions of old trauma and recovery. All fairly canon-typical.
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who's read and followed on with this. And to anyone who left kudos or comments - your kindness has made me smile every time.

Jon’s a fucking idiot. And a bastard. And screw him anyway for coming back full monster and running off into danger again while Tim’s still fighting his way through rounds of physio.

Mel had given him a thin, tight smile when she explained what had happened. With Jared Hopworth. Like he was supposed to feel the same grim sort of satisfaction she obviously did at Jon throwing his reckless, self-sacrificing… Needless to say, the (well-deserved) schadenfreude failed to manifest itself.

He’s just annoyed. Maybe a little worried. He settles himself in the office to watch over the coffin, passing the rib between his hands like a particularly macabre fidget toy as he silently waits on Jon’s return. Because he  _ has _ to trust that he’ll return; if just so Tim can chew him out for his recklessness one more time.

He sits around anxiously until the temperature in the archives starts to drop, sitting up with a shiver. Sure enough when he checks his watch he’s about five minutes late setting off for his usual lunch break. He raps on the doorframe twice as he leaves, ignoring the way his muscles protest as he makes his way up the stairs.

He knows by now that it’s all but useless to go looking for Martin if he doesn’t want to be found, so he just gives him the room that he needs. Which is part of his surprise when he returns to a drone of noise in the basement and Martin right there, hovering over the coffin while passing one of the damned tape recorders between his hands in an odd echo of Tim’s fidgeting earlier.

“Alright Marto, need me to step out again?”

The other startles, like he wasn’t expecting his voice. Maybe he’d just gotten lost in his thoughts and forgot to leave on time. But no, he turns to Tim with a wan little smile and carefully sets the recorder down, fingers drumming across the surface.

“Just… Just trying to give him something to come back to.”

“Don’t think the bone’s going to work as something precious to the idiot who’s constantly putting his body in mortal danger?” he holds back on the snarl that wants to come up but ends up collapsing back into his chair.

Martin flinches, a muscle feathering in his jaw. After a moment he nods slowly. “Something like that,” he admits. “Just, there should be something here for him, and I-”

Tim nods slowly, expression twisting into a grimace. “-are risking a lot just being here. And talking to me. Taking on the urge of everyone in this hellhole to sacrifice themselves to protect someone who never asked for it.”

Martin huffs a laugh without much humour. “No. Don’t think any of us know how. I should go…” he casts a nervous look to the doorway for a moment, as if expecting Peter to come swanning in any moment on sensing that Martin was having a  _ conversation _ of all the unprofessional things. “You’ll stay though, right? please? He needs someone to guide him back and I can’t be that for him right now.”

Tim feels a pang that’s as likely to be annoyance as pain. “And you think I can?”

Martin smiles wryly, more of the colour seeming to wash out of him as he gazes almost forlornly at the coffin. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m pretty sure he’d come back for you.”

Tim snorts mirthlessly. “Once you’re done with Lukas…” he shakes his head, hating all the tiptoeing around and the scheming and the monsters and everyone shielding each other from shit they won’t talk about. He’d say something if he wasn’t just as bad. “You know.”

Martin bites at his lips and nods slowly. “Good luck.”

Tim watches him leave from his seat, kicking out at the coffin with a huff. “Better not keep us waiting long. I’m not stopping overnight,” he threatens hollowly.

Hours pass. Jon’s testing how much he’s going to put up with his theatrics, honestly. He takes to pacing around the room, occasionally throwing snide remarks at dense wood and disembodied voices until his legs start protesting too much.

He finds himself wandering to the edge of the coffin, hand hovering inches away uncertain if it would try to compel him if he dared touch. Mostly it needed opening, though, right? He’s not about to do something that stupid, no matter how much the worry swirls in his gut.

He does ease himself down to the floor, though. Resting, just for a moment, with his back against the wood as he rubs his hands over sore muscles. 

“I still hate you, you know,” his voice is so quiet it’s almost just breath. So soft he can’t even hear himself over the dozens of voices from the tapes. It feels safe, this way. “I miss you. Missed you the whole time you went off the deep end. You were supposed to be there for us and- and I can’t believe you  _ still _ think this is the way to do it."

He blows out a long breath of air as his jaw works around words he’s not sure he wants to form. It feels too real, even when he can’t hear it, even as just a rumble in his chest. He lets his head fall back against the coffin and just breathes.

“Sash was gone the whole time. You know how fucked up that is? And you were gone in every way that matters. I can’t- why are you  _ like this _ , Jon? Why can’t you just fucking- just stop it. Just stop. With the leaving us out of everything and the self-sacrificing  _ bullshit _ . Just- come back.”

He’s not sure how long he sits there. Long enough that some of the tapes have to restart themselves with their creepy magic bullshit. The knocking against the lid is faint, sure, but the fact that he can hear it over all the voices at all is telling enough. He shifts over onto his knees as fast as he can get there, heart jumping into his throat when he swears he sees the lid move, just a little.

Again. Definitely there.

“Basira?!” He calls out, already swiping at the tape recorders on the lid to get them moved off.

Then the lid moves properly, with a heave of effort that suddenly becomes audible as the seal comes loose. “Wh- we’re out! We’re actually out, I don’t believe-”

“Shit! Basira!” Tim calls again, cutting Daisy off as she and Jon appear over the edge, blinking owlishly even in the relative gloom of the archives.

Jon’s eyes snap towards him, the weight of something half-hungry almost crushing on Tim’s chest.

Just for a second familiar terror washes over Tim as he sees the edge of compulsion in the stare.

“One fucking question, just one. I dare you,” he snarls, missing Basira’s entry entirely as he watches Jon flinch away from him.

He still can’t breathe again until Jon finally takes his eyes off of him, to get himself out. Basira’s already bodily lifting Daisy out and  _ shit _ but when did she get so small? It’s only in that moment that he really  _ looks _ at Jon and realises that he’s trembling too, looking half-dead on his feet.

He reaches without thinking, scowling and keeping his arm out regardless when Jon flinches away again. “You getting out or what?”   
  
“Oh, I-” he swallows and nods, casting a frantic look into whatever darkness lies below him before grasping for Tim’s shoulder.

He tries to pull himself out far too quickly, as though the fear of the buried and the enormity of the  _ stupid bloody risk _ he took is only just catching up to him. Tim breathes through his teeth, reaching up to pull Jon forward by his arms and focusing on not letting himself collapse back. He can only be glad he’s already on his knees.

Jon comes free eventually, dirt scattering across the floor around them as he all but collapses against him. Tim hates that he’s almost wheezing himself as he eases Jon off where he’s half on him, regretting his earlier frantic swipes at the tapes.

He leans back for a moment, just catching his breath, and quickly becomes acutely aware that Jon’s  _ still _ shaking. When he looks he sees him hunched in on himself, chest up to his knees and a faraway look in eyes that are lined with exhaustion.

And Tim… can’t summon the anger.

It’s maybe too little too late but he finally really tried to be there for one of them. Even if it was murder cop. Put himself in danger all over again to get one of them out, not just for his next story to feed on.

He sighs and relents, carefully winding an arm around Jon’s shoulders and pulling him into a hug.

Jon yanks himself away, strength dragged up from somewhere just so he could pull back hard enough for his head to thud against the wood.

When Tim looks at him he’s looking right back at him, eyes flickering around skittishly and knees drawn even closer to his chest. “Right.” He clenches his jaw. Jon might be the actual monster but it was  _ Tim _ that might have been a murderer for a few months. 

The anger still doesn’t come. He just feels hollowed out all over again, shuffling back away to give Jon space until he has the strength to get out of here. His job’s done now. Martin can pick up the rest of the slack with his own schemes.

A hand around his wrist, scarred and clinging desperately. “Don’t- I mean please… please don’t go.”

“You’re the one that looked like I was about to set off another detonator,” he points out, the edge not quite there where he wants it to be.

“Yes I-but no. I,” Jon takes in a deep breath, looking down at his hands as he clenches and opens them in a way that’s so familiar to Tim it sends a pang of something like grief through him.

“It’s not you, it’s the buried,” Jon finally says, still watching his hands. Only fair. Tim’s still watching them too. “It was so- so oppressive in there. It all clings right to your skin and as much as I always… as much as that pressure always meant when it was you it’s too much right now. But I don’t want... No. I’m happy you’re here. I’d be grateful if you’d stay with me.”

He sighs, watching the tremors and the twitchiness and how dulled Jon is caked in dirt and… for the first time in a long time he feels like they’re just as scared as each other.

He reaches over slowly, leaving his arm hanging in the air. “Hands?” he offers, soft as he can make his voice.

Jon swallows loud enough to be heard, which is the first time that Tim realises the tapes have finally stopped. He nods and reaches out. He almost looks surprised with himself when his fingers slide between Tim’s, holding tight. 

Tim shifts until his back is against the wood again, giving Jon’s hand a gentle squeeze as they sit together in the dark and the dirt and the quiet. His thumb brushes a gentle rhythm to ground him as both his thumb and his eyes trace over Jon's scars. Scars that he remembers and scars he’d only seen after the explosion.

Part of him wants to talk because there hasn't been any comfort for either of them in so long. Part of him isn't sure how because it all feels too much and too late. But they're side by side and hand in hand, legs close enough for him to gently kick Jon’s ankle if he felt like it and it swells something in his chest.

It’s quiet moments in the pub, nights curled up together on the couch between lazy kisses, a mad dash through the tunnels when Jon’s hand in his was the only thing that kept his legs going among the haze of CO2.

It’s a lot of things that they’ll never get back. And it’s something that feels like they could try for better.

He doesn’t realise Jon’s looking at him until he carefully clears his throat. He looks fragile and unsure and it’s somehow a relief next to the way his eyes change when he asks a question so when one does come it doesn’t surprise Tim that he doesn’t feel the bitter fizz of compulsion wrapping around his throat. “Did you mean it? That you wish you’d had the chance to try?”

Tim bites his lip; thinks guiltily of how much effort Martin’s currently putting into playing the saviour when Tim'sjust too tired for all the games. Thinks of how much they’ve already lost. His stomach twists. “I think maybe we’re too late.”

Jon looks down, clenching around the tattered hem of his shirt. Tim sees it for a moment; Jon’s weary nod and the acceptance of it all. How quick he’ll give up here.

“I’ll try though,” he offers, words almost rushing out of him. “If you stop leaving us all out of it and talking like a monster’s all you can be. I’m not going to fight through you giving up again. You’ve got to try too.”

Jon pulls his knees up to his chest and carefully, so very slowly, leans until he’s resting as much against Tim as he is the coffin. “I will. I want to. I’ve… I missed you too.”

Tim’s breath leaves him in one go, surprised at how much he’d wanted to hear that. “Yeah, I… me too.”

He turns his head, looking down at where Jon’s resting against him and presses a kiss to his forehead. It tastes like wet earth; like the buried became one with Jon’s skin while he was in there. Something surprisingly defensive rises in Tim and he pointedly leans over to kiss the other temple, mindful of the way the other’s hand tightens convulsively around his. Part of him wonders if they might really make it through this.


End file.
